How, Still, We See Thee Lie
by O'Donnell
Summary: Love it or hate it, the spirit of Christmas gets to everyone eventually - even Sherlock Holmes. One man and his dog, two fat ladies, and a Norwegian on the underground bring the reality of Christmas home to Sherlock Holmes.


How, Still, We See Thee Lie

The active annoyance of Christmas - _this Christmas_ \- started off as a timid tap. Then a firmer knock. Then a distinct hammering. Then a raised voice.

"Sherlock! I know you're in there! Answer the door!"

Molly Hooper. Sounded a bit irate this time. He rolled his eyes and sighed.

She had started asking him if he was going to the annual _Crime and Coroner Crimble Crash,_ the combined party for Bart's morgue and forensics teams and the Yard's murder squad, in October.

He had ignored her timorous little question played on constant repeat throughout October, started scoffing in November, and was reduced to sighs and eye rolls by December. He refused to answer. But she did not stop asking, and he finally decided he could not bear to see the hopeful little look in her eyes die, so he always looked away rather than confront Molly Hooper or the issue itself.

She knew he would not come. Surely she knew? People, a crowd, small talk, booze, nibbles. Nightmare. Boring. He never went. And why should he?

Every year it was the same. Every year the world went a little mad with hope and happiness and softness and sentiment. And he hated it. Closed it down. Avoided it. Blocked it out. Christmas did not exist for Sherlock Holmes.

So, just like every year, here he was sitting on the floor with his back to the wall, ignoring the draught from the front window and - most of all - sitting in the dark and the quiet in a sort of suspended animation, ignoring the noise coming from the door of 221B. Wishing people would ignore him. Leave him alone. Please.

"Sherlock! Lestrade says come. Please come! We all want you there."

She stopped talking eventually and took two steps away from the door. Just as he was breathing a sigh of relief, she came back.

"If you don't come with me now, Greg will come for you later!"

She made it sound like a threat. It was a threat. Not only did Greg Lestrade have a key to the front door, he also had no qualms about strong arming a taller and younger consulting detective if the need arose. And Lestrade might consider sausages rolls and sherry trifle just that Christmas type of urgent need that had arisen.

Sherlock Holmes sat in the dark and put his head in his hands and groaned. But he still did not answer the door.

And when she finally did leave 221B Baker Street he peered up over the windowsill and watched her, making sure that she did not spot him watching her as she stalked indignantly away in her pretty party frock and unaccustomed high heels.

But now he knew someone else would also be coming for him. So he needed to get away. To avoid Christmas and all it entailed. Booze, laughter, bonhomie, idle chat

 _Oh, God. What to do?_

He could not just walk aimlessly around London through the happy crowds of carol singers and last minute shoppers. Not as himself. He might see someone he knew, or someone might recognise him. And he couldn't risk that - the false good humour, the slaps on the back, the cheesey grins, the insincere Christmas and New Year good wishes. Nightmare. Definitely a nightmare..

So he would go out and face the indifferent world rather than the intimate party, but he would render himself invisible first. Turn himself into just another statistic, another of the unloved and unwashed. Part of the subculture of the big city. He would become an anonymous member of the homeless network.

Yes, that would do. That would work.

When he came downstairs to perform his Christmas disappearing act, Mrs Hudson was teetering on a chair, putting twigs of holly around the hall mirror. He casually reached up, took the holly from her and arranged it to her satisfaction. And when he had done she thanked him very nicely, stood back and put her hands on her hips, looked him over and remarked:

"Out to a fancy dress party, then?"

A model of restraint and silent disapproval, his landlady. Sometimes. He offered her his manic grin and watched her look at him sideways and bite back whatever she nearly said.

Dirty ripped trainers, baggy stained cargo pants and a sweat shirt. A hoodie up and over greased back hair, and a three sizes too large grey kagoule transformed his look. A small nylon backpack on his shoulder held a half groundsheet and a knee rug.

"Think it's a costume that will catch on?" he asked instead of directly answering.

"Don't think Molly will appreciate it," she said archly. "I heard her come earlier. Trying to get you to go out and have a nice time, I'll bet."

He pretended he hadn't heard her. Sometimes his landlady saw and heard too much.

"You should go with her, Sherlock. She likes you. A lot. And it is Christmas."

He wrinkled his nose, and she patted his arm.

"Whatever you are going to do, and wherever you are going - be Christmassy!" she instructed. And he quirked an ironic grin at her and walked away.

The evening was cool and very dark, the stars high and bright. He looked up at the heavens and took a deep breath. He felt free at last. Untrammelled by the weight of Christmas, finally. Alone and anonymous in the dark, and with no social graces or expectations to meet.

He would be able to cope now until Christmas was over. Even as a child he had disliked Christmas: had never believed in Santa. It had simply defied even a child's logic that one man could reach every house in the world with a sack full of presents over one long night.

Or be that magnanimous. He was born a cynical child, as he was so often told. Self contained, difficult, selfish. He had been accused of all these things, and for too many years, to be affected by the jibes any longer.

And, with the same objective logic that was the safe haven of his mind, he had always also distrusted the real purpose of presents. To curry favour? Bribe good behaviour? Please the giver more than the recipient? Provide an excuse for the exchange of expensive, unnecessary and foolish fripperies? And for what?

His family complained he was old beyond his years, an embarrassment, uncivilised, churlish. He could not articulate his mistrust and fear of enforced and fleeting happiness, of such shallow expectations of society. But he learnt the hard way to keep his feelings to himself, learnt how to meet the demands of society and to reciprocate good wishes, to send greetings cards, to give gifts. But he was still never happy about Christmas.

Nor about how it was that so many people seemed to keep all their tiny store of goodwill for a public display of insincere happiness on one single day a year. Yes, he was cynical, he knew that. Old before his years. Always had been.

But he was not Scrooge. Nor Herod. He did not make others suffer or share his discomfort at Christmas, and if he preferred to just lock himself away and not participate - well, that was his affair.

When he and Mycroft became adults they both preferred to avoid the commercialism and the mawkishness, the sentiment and the artificial happiness. So the two brothers sometimes hibernated together through Christmas, shared each others company in the peaceful impassive quiet refuge of the older brother's study.

But this year Mycroft was abroad on government business, and John Watson had gone to spend two days with his sister. Sherlock had been sufficiently well schooled to have rung their parents to wish them happy Christmas earlier that day, as both would be out doing their voluntary work with the homeless on Christmas Day itself, so he was ahead of even his normal limited schedule and perfectly relaxed about it. In his own way.

Neither Molly Hooper nor Lestrade would find him to drag him to their Christmas party while he was out on the street, and he preferred it that way. His most comfortable role in life was that of observer, not least at Christmas. The outsider looking in, the loner apart from the parties, the drifter around the edges of the humdrum lives of other people.

He found his feet taking him to Trafalgar Square, where sparkling lights, the huge Norwegian Christmas tree and too many people in Santa hats tunelessly crooning carols were perplexing the pigeons.

He hunkered down in a corner by one of the lions, and sat absently watching the hot chestnut man with his brazier, four students busking haphazardly with one cornet and three enthusiastic but tuneless voices.

They were picking their way through the Messiah by memory, but kept returning to the _Hallelujah Chorus_ because that was the tune most people knew, and the one they knew best. But after seven repetitions he was bored, so gave up that little entertainment and moved on, grinning to himself. A lot of people were going to be leaving London that day with the same earworm. Well, it could be worse.

Anything other than a lisped _Away In A Manger_ would be good. He had never been able to stand that hymn, even as a child. Far too sentimental! Far too many versions of it, far too many legends about it's composition, from German and Martin Luther to American and commercialism. Who knew? Who cared?

He smiled to himself at his own grumpiness. The crowds buffeted him along and he went with the flow, for once.

Police and security officers had a two way traffic system working along the crowded pavements of Oxford Street, and the hordes were bustling and good natured, with party hats and whizzers, as well as carrier bags laden with shopping.

Europe's busiest shopping street. Part of the A40 that if he kept walking would take him to Fishguard in Wales. A little port of lava bread, Welsh women warriors in red frocks and black pointy hats, of music and Dylan Thomas. Random thoughts, random memories.

With his disreputable clothes and shuffling gait, he was being watched carefully by the policemen he passed: a few faces he recognised, but none saw beyond the simple disguise of old clothes and a stoop to spot him hiding there in plain sight. And he revelled in that freedom.

At Oxford Circus Tube station, (one of the busiest rapid transit stations in the world, built 1900, the voice in his head reminded him) he heard a clear tenor voice singing carols: it caught his attention. Few people knew the modern carol 'Torches" written by British composer John Joubert based on a Spanish song.

The singer was a slim yet rugged older man sitting with his back to a wall, cross legged on a square of cardboard and hugging a white Staffordshire terrier to him. Each was keeping the other warm, Sherlock realised.

The dog smiled at people as they passed, and the combined charms of the music and the mutt rattled coins into a plastic cup.

"You make a good team," Sherlock commented as he passed.

"Me and my girl," said the man cheerfully. "This is the beautiful Ruby."

"A Staffie?" Sherlock asked, and paused for conversation.

"Yeah. World's least understood dog. Thought to be a vicious street fighting dog, but known by the Victorians as The Nanny Dog because they were kept to look after the children, and did an amazing job. Sweethearts with tough exteriors." He hugged the dog and grinned at it. "Bit like me. Bit like you, too," he added with unexpected perception.

The two men looked at each other, quietly, mutually assessing.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock Holmes asked.

"Yeah, and the rest," was the restrained reply.

"You ended up on the streets because of PTSD." It was statement, not question, and because of the cool objectivity the man on the ground nodded.

"You're sharp," he said. "But yes. The usual. Nightmares, flashbacks, paranoia. Five Christmases ago I half killed my brother because he made the final snide snipe about when I was going to pull myself together and start acting like a real man. So here I am, a real man, getting by on the streets. Me and Ruby."

"You took your dog with you?"

"No. Rescued her from a druggie who was threatening to cut her ears off six months ago. We've been a team ever since, me and her. We look after each other. She keeps me going."

"You deserve better than this. Both of you." He heard the words come out of his mouth and wondered how they had got there.

"Nice of you to say so. But I'm nothing special."

"Yes you are; and yes, you have been. Or you wouldn't be here."

 _What the hell? In for a penny…._

The man looked away, embarrassed.

"I don't think like that. That way madness lies. Let me shun that."

"Not many homeless people quote King Lear."

"Or recognise it, for that matter." He looked searchingly at Sherlock Holmes, and saw something beyond the scruffy clothes and the unusual opal eyes. "But a lot could. None of us were what we have become, mate," said the man sitting on the cardboard. "But you know that."

He shafted another piercing look Sherlock Holmes' way.

"Chris Walsh," he said, offering a hand.

"Lars Sigerson," Sherlock replied automatically and shook the hand; a rare human touch.

 _Must be Christmas. I don't reach out to people, on or off the street…._

"Nice to meet you, Lars. Lars? Is that Swedish or Norwegian? A long way from home, either way."

"I like to come into the city and see the Norwegian Christmas tree," another lie joined the others. They came easily to him. "Reminds me of home."

"Lucky you. This is the time of year I try not to remember home, and the past."

Sherlock Holmes stood very still. Chris Walsh's words struck a chord. Of a time when life was easier, brighter, held happy and more innocent possibilities….

"You should ring home," he heard himself say suddenly. "Let people know you are safe and well. Offer bricks to build a bridge….."

 _It must be Christmas. I never say things like this…._

"Oh yeah? How do I do that then, Clever Clogs? No phone. No money for a phone. Or even a phone box. If you can actually find one that works these days."

"Ring someone. Let them know you are safe. Alive." He reached down and touched a shoulder in emphasis. "People need to know you alive."

 _It must be Christmas. Why am I doing this? You can get away with this sort of thing at Christmas. Just not the rest of the year._

"Have experience of being disappeared _,_ do you?"

"Even I rang my parents to wish them a happy Christmas today. Couldn't face ringing my brother, though," he admitted, face twisting, pushing back memories of death and exile and absence.

Chris Walsh exhaled a breathy laugh.

"Don't get me wrong, young Lars. Stuart and me were always mates as well as brothers. I was upset at the time, but now….now I realise he was at the end of my tether for me; was worried about me. Trying to snap me out of the bad memories and the fear. I over reacted."

"That's all part of PTSD."

"Shut up, man. I don't want to talk about it."

Sherlock Holmes watched dispassionately as the other man sucked back a tear or two.

"Sorry. I didn't mean…..to bring back the memories."

"I know. It's not just that. It's more that someone actually sees a person sitting here, actually stopping to talk. I can't remember the last time someone stopped to talk. People like me - like us - we're invisible normally. Aren't we?"

 _But I choose to be invisible. You have invisibility imposed upon you…._

Some indefinable emotion drifted through Sherlock Holmes' mind, and he wanted to walk away from it.

"Sorry," he said, and started to move away. "Sorry I haven't any cash to give you. I haven't a penny on me….." and he realised that was true; not a joke, not a lie. He had come out of Baker Street in such a rush he had forgotten to bring any money with him. A pragmatic practicality John Watson was always nagging him about….

"Happy Christmas, anyway." he muttered as he went.

"Ta very much, mate. Didn't for a minute think you had any more money than me, anyway. Ha-bloody-ha," was the reply that drifted with quiet cynicism his way. And for a moment his mind railed against sentiment, against human contact, against families and fear, unfairness and thought. And he cursed Christmas.

 _I turn my back on everyone. Everything. Turn my back on Christmas. Counting my blessings is trite and mawkish and sentimental. Humanity is …..Christmas. Christmas is humanity. Bah, humbug, indeed. Who said that?_

' _God rest ye, merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay…..to save poor souls from Satan's power when they had gone astray' - that carol drifted unbidden into his mind, one of the very oldest there was, not sentimental or mawkish. Those lyrics bit, and reflected real life. Real life across the centuries and yet still true in the corners of the often haunted streets of London._

Turning away from Chris Walsh and Ruby saw him heading for the station interior, and he allowed himself to be sucked along with the crowd, along tunnels and elevators to any one of the fourteen platforms. Bakerloo, Central and Victoria lines, he didn't care where he went…..he was just drifting.

He stood at the back of the press of people waiting for the next train. And, watching and scanning the crowd aimlessly, found his attention caught by a young man in jeans and a hoodie similar to his. Weaving and slipping in and out of the crowd, passing between pairs and groups, sharp alert eyes, intense spatial awareness.

Sherlock watched him carefully. A pickpocket. A skilled pickpocket. Looking for a pocket or a bag in which to dip. To make ill-gotten gains of someone else's hard earned Christmas spending money.

He watched the young man focus down on two women. A mother and daughter.

Up from the country. Both teachers, he saw. Both tubby and unconscious about it, comfortable in jeans, sparkling baggy sweaters, trendy big bobble hats, duffle coats. Walking arm in arm, happy and at ease in each other's company.

Sherlock felt a pang in his heart when he saw family generations so at ease together like that.

 _Well, if only. Nothing to be done about it, though. Just another little tragedy in life. Just a bit pointed at Christmas, that was all…..another reason for hating Christmas. If he was making a list. Which he wasn't._

He watched the young man - Eastern European, chain smoker, left handed, only child, formerly a bricklayer - close in on his prey. Pick his moment. Wait until the mother had just checked that her Radley purse was in her shiny grey bejewelled bag ( _on the top of thre other contents, bag unzipped, not held tight in close to her body; would people never learn?)_ before the man struck.

An arm weaved carefully. Index and middle finger insinuated at speed into the top of the bag and lifted the purse , quick and confident, without being noticed. Except he had been noticed.

Sherlock took two long strides forward, one hand grasping the young man's forearm, the other hand offering a extended middle finger knuckle joint to rap the nerves on the back of the hand sharply, numb the grasping fingers.

"Hidhe!" he rapped with quiet command. "Ma jep mua!" Drop it! Give it to me! In Albanian. A language guess; but the tone of voice worked the command just the same.

The cream coloured purse decorated with stylised Scotch terriers dropped from one hand into another, and Sherlock Holmes, in one fluid movement, scooped up the purse in his right hand, shoved the pickpocket away with the other, and turned the purse to drop it back into the bag unnoticed - and back as quickly as it had been stolen.

That was the way it should have worked.

But the younger woman, the daughter, turned and saw him at the end of the arc of motion, with his hand in her mother's handbag, and the purse still in his hand.

And she screamed. Then, like the cliché from an old movie, screamed again, at the top of her voice:

"Stop! Thief! Help!"

Everyone in the immediate area turned to look. Frozen outside their Christmas bubble.

"He's stealing my mum's purse! Help!"

Sherlock stood stock still. To run would be to ask to be rugby tackled and manhandled by a superhero member of the public making an over enthusiastic citizen's arrest. In his peripheral vision he watched the real thief grin, slide away like an eel between a family group of five, and be lost to sight. _Dammit!_

The mother spun towards him with sharp eyes and a look of fear. She was much shorter than him, sun tanned and slight - _back from a cheap pre-Christmas break in the sun? Lanzarote? Certainly not a sun bed, a much more healthy looking unseasonal tan -_ and she looked him up and down with bright blue eyes that tuned out from holiday mood to professional assessment. A teacher's rapid head to toe examination and analysis.

He saw her process the data, looking more disappointed than frightened now. Turn her body a little to put the bag instinctively out of his reach, and then to put one hand out to capture his arm, the other to take back the purse.

He allowed her to do all this. Dropped his shoulders, avoided her eyes. Put Sherlock Holmes to one side so pathetic down and out Lars Sigerson could talk and abase his way out of trouble.

"So sorry," he said, in that vaguely accented voice he used when in full Lars character. "Your purse was sliding out of your bag…I was just putting it back."

"A likely story!" huffed the daughter. "Did you think we were born yesterday? Country bumpkins up in town ready to be fleeced?"

"No! I…."

"The young man is telling you the truth," said a new voice. A proper Norwegian accent this time. A middle aged man in expensive anorak and insulated woollen hat, large haversack. Tourist. Sightseer with serious intent - an out of season specialist to get through the sights faster, carrying a dog earred A to Z and a tablet.

The women turned to him.

 _Oh God, another teacher. Senior school, certainly, at the very least. Theology, perhaps? Batchelor Slow thinking, pedantic, a righteous bore_. _Christmas always brought such people out of the woodwork._

"Skal jeg fortelle dem sennheten?" the man asked. Shall I tell them the truth?

He looked at the women. "I am asking him if he wishes me to tell the truth of his action," the newcomer explained portentously. "So you know."

Sherlock shrugged. "Hvis du vil," he responded. If you want.

"What do you mean?" asked the daughter suspiciously.

"A pickpocket - not this young man - had taken your purse. This young man somehow took it back. And was returning it to your handbag. I saw him do it. Hoping, I think, that you would not even notice it had gone."

Pompous, self righteous, but utterly convincing in his truth.

All three smiled. And then, even more embarrassingly, all three looked at Sherlock Holmes.

 _Goddammit_ , _this is ridiculous. And embarrassing. The last thing I want to be is a hero. Especially at Christmas._

The mother still had her hand on his arm. He looked impassively down at her.

"How did you do that?" she whispered up to him. "Why? Why did you bother? Risk getting hurt, drawing attention to yourself? You must have know it would be hard for anyone to believe you? You could have been arrested, imprisoned….."

 _Hmn. English literature teacher then; far too much empathy and imagination…_

He stood and looked blankly at her, and could think, for the moment of nothing at all to say in reply. No sharp witticism, no clever aside, no snide comment.

 _Well, that's a new experience for you, Holmes. Well done, old chap._

They stood and waited for his response, and let the incoming train empty and load passengers, suck air from the platform, move off again with a rattle of couplings and a hiss of air brakes released.

"I am a university lecturer," said the man with the haversack imperiously, filling the silence.

 _Yes, thank you. We already know, Pompous…_

"I know young people," he said, looking intently into Sherlock's face. "I think this boy may have autistic tendencies. Perhaps this is why he is on the streets. His intelligence and special ability make him hard to read, to understand. Who knows what may have happened to him?"

 _Oh, my. Preserve me from right thinking do-gooders!_

The two other teachers nodded in sympathy and understanding. And Sherlock Holmes wished the ground would swallow him up. That he could disappear into the ventilation shaft. Spontaneously combust. Reveal himself as a ticket inspector, a mystery shopper….ironic that he had gone onto the streets in disguise so no-one would notice him!

 _Well, that had turned out well! Losing a grip on things, clearly. Christmas had that effect…._

He stood in front of them, a picture of misery, and watched their expressions turn from anger to interest to empathy. And he never, ever wanted empathy! And sympathy even less than that.

He shifted his weight, ready to stride away with a final nod. But the mother gripped his arm harder, and stopped him.

"I have a lot of money in that purse," she said, brandishing it a little. "Christmas money I have been saving up all year for blitzing the shops today. Credit cards, bank information, loyalty and shopping cards. Driving license, organ donor card, train and theatre tickets. If I had lost my purse…I would have been lost as well. And my Christmas ruined, if not my whole life."

"I do not like pickpockets for that reason," he said, finally. The Norwegian accent very strong from him this time. Protection and shield.

"Here!"

To his embarrassment she opened her purse. Looked at him. Took out a twenty pound note. Pressed it into his hand without taking her eyes off his face.

"You have lovely eyes," she whispered unexpectedly. "I wouldn't have looked at you twice, ordinarily, just another dead beat on the street. But you stepped forward and became a person. And did a good thing. A kindness at Christmas"

She peered up at him, searching for something in his face, something she wanted to see, something he did not recognise or understand. He tried to pull away. Tried to give her the money back.

"I don't want….don't need…." he began.

She reached up then. Took his face between her hands, brought his head down a little to meet hers.

"Everybody wants," she asserted. "Everybody needs. Even you. Perhaps, even especially you."

She put her face to his face and whispered a light kiss onto his cheek. She smelt of chicken soup and muffins ( _pub lunch?)_ and Elizabeth Arden Blue Grass. Smiled into his eyes.

She pulled out another twenty pound note, and crumpled that into his hand too.

"You deserve this reward," she said bracingly. "Do something useful with it. Don't buy drugs or booze. Get a hot meal. Or, even better, buy a cheap phone and ring your family. And tell them you love them. Whatever has happened to you in the past to get you here - now - you have goodness in your heart, so you must also have people who love you.

"So phone them and wish them a happy Christmas. You can get away with anything at Christmas. Love, kindness, forgiveness. You can even allow yourself to be happy. If you choose. So choose."

She folded his fingers around the money with determination, her hand around his hand in a fierce squeeze. Let him go then, and pushed him away.

"Happy Christmas, young man. What is your name?"

"Lars. Lars Sigerson," he replied.

"Then have a happy Christmas, Lars. And I hope things are better for you in the new year than they have been in this one. And go and say Happy Christmas to someone who loves you. While you have the chance."

He heard himself say: "And happy Christmas to you, too." Then feel effusive and foolish.

 _How long is it since I said that? To myself or to anyone? Said it? Meant it? Was given the same greeting with such wholehearted goodness by a stranger? He could not resist asking himself the question. But refused to consider an answer._

He turned away, and was allowed to turn away this time. Untypically, he looked back and saw her stand and zip the purse safely into an inner pocket of her handbag this time, then firmly close the handbag. Look across to him with a little smile and a wave of farewell.

 _Better late than never. Oh, shut up, do!_

Her daughter grinned at him. The Norwegian lecturer, having done his good deed for the day, drifted away to consult the Tube line map. Peace of a sort returned to the station platform as everyone went back to their own lives and waited for the next train.

Sherlock Holmes walked against the tide, back up to the surface from where he had come.

Chris Walsh and Ruby still sat on their cardboard, waiting dumbly for pennies to fall into their begging cup.

Sherlock Holmes stood in front of him, waiting with rare patience to catch his attention. And Chris Walsh looked up at him.

"Oh! You again!" Looked more closely now, read something in the face. "What's happened?" he asked with concentration.

"I think…..I just bumped into a Christmas fairy. Or angel. Whatever."

He unclenched his fingers from around the two twenty pound notes. Held them out.

"No, mate. That's too much. That must be every penny you have."

"Yes, it is. But it doesn't matter. Take it."

And just as had happened to him, he reached forward, put the notes into Chris Walsh's grubby hand, and folded his fingers around them with his own.

"If you go down to the big church on Trafalgar Square you will find Christmas aid for people on the streets. Find the vicar. His name is Theo Woods. Tell him I sent you, you and Rosie, and tell him I asked you to ask him to find a roof for the two of you. And tell him your story."

"Oh, yeah? And who is sending me on this little Christmas pilgrimage?"

"Tell him Lars Sigerson sent you. Tell him Sherlock gives you a reference. He'll know."

"Are you joking?"

"I never joke. And another thing….."

He smiled then, and it transformed his features.

"The church will give you and Ruby food. Find you new clothes and stuff. Don't feel guilty, or beholden - remember they like doing that. So use that money to buy a cheap mobile at the phone shop across the way. Phone your brother. Just say hello and wish him a happy Christmas. See what happens then."

"You are joking."

"Never been more serious. Friends and situations come and go. But family can be special. And if he rejects you - well, at least you will have tried. The guilt and the shame will no longer be yours. His problem then. Not yours. And I reckon the load will be lifted. Just a bit."

Chris Walsh scrambled to his feet, clutching the money and Ruby's lead. He was an inch taller than Sherlock, and the military bearing was still there. Perhaps even more so again now.

"If you turn out to be a Christmas angel yourself…." he began. Saw the horrified expression on the face of the young man in front of him. Laughed with simple good humour in a way he thought he had forgotten how to do. "If you turn out to be a Christmas angel I shall track you down and will probably have to kill you."

Sherlock Holmes grinned back with an identical, uncomplicated smile that took years off him and made him look young and vulnerable and quite unlike himself.

"I look forward to it," he said simply.

He turned and walked away, and this time did not look back.

He strode through the darkness as Christmas Eve turned into Christmas Day. When he reached Baker Street the house was dark and empty.

With a sigh he walked slowly up the seventeen steps to 221B. Took off the old clothes and put them away. Stepped into the shower and sluiced off the day.

Coming home from midnight mass, Martha Hudson let herself quietly into the house. Lights were on in Sherlock's flat, but that was no indication that he was awake, or even there.

So she was not quite surprised when she spotted a still figure sprawled across the Victorian armchair in a corner of the hallway.

He was no longer in his guise as a member of London's homeless network, but his usual elegant self in charcoal Paul Smith with a purple shirt. He looked cool and elegant and relaxed.

"Hello, Sherlock. You're back then? No hoodie this time? You look very handsome."

He flashed a lazy smile at her, but said nothing.

"Just back from church. Always go to midnight mass. The church was packed. A good sing and the spirit of Christmas. Lovely," she said.

"Happy Christmas, Mrs Hudson."

Four simple words, and she was delighted to hear them. For she knew such words did not come easily.

She leant down, put a kiss on his cheek and her arms round him. He did not struggle away for once, but lifted his hands to encompass hers for a second, returning her affection with a tiny gesture that meant so much. From him.

"Happy Christmas, Sherlock. And a wonderful new year to come, my love," she added quietly.

She stepped away from him, looked down at him, put her hands on her hips.

"That Mr Gorgeous - Lestrade to you - is coming to collect me in a minute to take me to a party; he knew I wanted to go to church first. Just a quick visit, half an hour or so. Will you come with me? Everyone will be so pleased to see you. Lestrade, Molly…"

He looked levelly at her for a moment, almost as if he had not heard her. Computing.

"Yes," he said finally. "Yes. I think I will."

He surged to his feet and dropped a light kiss on her forehead.

"Back in a minute. I need to go and make a phone call first," he said.

She watched him go with an indulgent, surprised smile. Leant around the newel post to shout up to his disappearing back:

"….and give him my love!"

The affronted hrrumph Sherlock Holmes shot back down the stairs to her made her laugh.

Suddenly lighthearted, she began to sing.

" _Ding dong merrily on high,"_ she trilled.

Yes, Christmas was definitely here, she thought. And all those tiny Christmas miracles of comfort and joy it brought with it.

She bustled away to find the large tin of mince pies she had put ready to take out with her…..and to listen for the knock on the door. And the true arrival of Christmas to Baker Street.

END

 **Author's Notes:**

'How, Still, We See Thee Lie' is a corruption through changed punctuation, of a line from the Christmas carol 'Oh, Little Town Of Bethlehem' Written by C19th Philadelphia Episcopalian priest Phillips Brooks, with music by his organist Lewis Redner in the US version (tune St Louis) while the tune most used in England is Forest Green, arranged by Ralph Vaughan Williams from folk song The Ploughboy's Dream; there are other tunes. And was sung at my wedding.

Scrooge: Anti hero of the Charles Dicken fable A Christmas Carol; who is converted from miserly cynicism to kindly faith overnight after a famous series of dream experiences

Herod: The King in the Nativity who had the male children slaughtered in the hope of foiling the prophesy of the coming of Jesus Christ. The name means son of a hero, and he was appointed King Of The Jews by the Roman Senate.

Norwegian Christmas Tree: A Christmas tree in Trafalgar Square donated by the people of Oslo every year from 1947 as thanks for help in WW2. Traditionally a Norwegian spruce over 50 years old and twenty feet tall, it is decorated in Norwegian fashion with white lights and is the focal point of London Christmas celebration.

Hallelujah Chorus, Messiah: The most famous part of a 1741 oratorio written by George Frederic Handel. The libretto is a scriptural text from the King James Bible by Charles Jennen.

Lava bread: Welsh delicacy of boiled seaweed - truly delicious. (It also comes in tins for exiles.) Dylan Thomas classic _Under Milkwood_ was filmed at Lower Fishguard; the Welsh women warriors feature in the legend of the French invasion that failed there because of them.

Staffordshire Bull Terrier: Lovely and much misunderstood dogs with gentle, sweet natures. Animal sanctuaries and dog rescues are overloaded with Staffies - so give a dog a home and change the world one dog at a time. In England make a start on the national Dogs Blog.

"That way madness lies. Let me shun that." Spoken by King Lear in Shakespeare's tragedy King Lear.

Lars Sigerson: An alias assumed by the ACD Sherlock during his hiatus away after Reichenbach,

The pickpocket: Based on a real incident and a real pickpocket, but encountered at Bank, not Oxford Circus. While everyone else just walked past, my best friend and I stood and observed and learnt. Not idle gawking at misadventure, but conditioned to do so by our (different) professions.

Radley: A British upmarket ladies accessories brand for bags, watches etc, with their trademark design a stylised Scottish terrier.

Theo Woods: A number of eminent Church of English clerics and bishops belong to the distinguished Woods family, and several bear the name Theodore. This is a fictional younger one, in tribute.

Mr Gorgeous: Una Stubbs' pet name for Rupert Graves - Mrs Hudson to Lestrade.

'Ding Dong Merrily on High: Originally a French dance tune, became a Christmas carol courtesy of lyricist George Ratcliffe Woodward, which reflected his interest in bell ringing.


End file.
